HP: The Son of Tom

The chapel was silent. Melted candles left trails of wax on the stone floor, and the air smelled of extinguished smoke and old pages. Aurelian still held his notebook when the embrace slowly ended.

The boy stepped back. He looked closely at the elf with torn ears and teary eyes. He wasn't afraid. Only a strange sensation, as if something ancient had awakened.

"Can you tell me about her?" he asked quietly. "About my mother."

Stinky looked at him as if he had been asked to reveal the holiest secret. He sat on a dusty bench, hands on his knees, and began to speak.

He told him about Elaine Harper. About her years at Hogwarts, how she helped those no one else would, how her magic wasn't just powerful—it was compassionate. He spoke of her laughter, of how she read aloud, of how she never treated Stinky as a servant but as a friend.

"She used to say… that love wasn't a weakness, but the only magic everyone can do," said the elf, lowering his gaze. "She sang to you before you were born. Spoke to you as if you already understood."

Aurelian listened in silence, memorizing every word as if they were a spell. He didn't cry. But he felt something in his chest—warmer than any spark of magic: love, affection. Pride.

"Thank you for protecting me," he said.

"It was my promise," Stinky replied. "And Stinky keeps promises to the end."

There was a moment of silence. Then Aurelian stepped closer.

"Can you help me with something else?" he asked with a smile.

The elf looked up.

"I want to know. Everything they haven't told me. I want to understand the magical world as it truly is today. What's happened, who rules, how wizards behave… And I need books. Any kind. Spells, history, theory, whatever you can find. Can you get them?"

The elf's eyes shone, first with surprise, then with determination.

"Yes. Yes, Stinky can. But you must be careful. Many magical books aren't meant for children. Some… change those who read them."

"It doesn't matter. I want to be prepared. I want control. And for that, I need knowledge."

Stinky nodded slowly.

"Then I'll start tonight, young Aurelian."

Before leaving that night, Stinky stopped. He pulled something else from his rags: a small black leather pouch, with a worn silver drawstring.

"Lady Elaine also asked me to give you this… when you began seeking your own path."

He handed it over with both hands, as if it were sacred.

Aurelian held it carefully. It wasn't heavy, but something inside glowed with a subtle warmth. He opened it… and fell silent.

Inside were coins. Golden Galleons. Many. But no matter how much he reached in, they didn't run out.

"It's… a bottomless pouch," he murmured.

"Enchanted by her herself," Stinky said reverently. "You can only pull out what you truly need. But it will be enough. It will let you learn, store, buy, and survive if necessary. The lady thought of everything."

Aurelian clutched the pouch to his chest.

"She knew she wouldn't be alone for long…" he whispered, almost to himself. "She knew I would find the way."

_____________

The following weeks were full

Stinky returned each night with something new: a torn page from a book on magical creatures, a piece of an old enchanted map, a mutilated copy of the Daily Prophet. Aurelian analyzed them like an alchemist at a makeshift laboratory. With the help of the pouch and the resources Stinky began to gather on his small expeditions through the magical world, he started to piece together a map of how magical society functioned.

He soon discovered that the magical world was more unstable than he had imagined.

Among the things Stinky brought back, the most intriguing was an almost illegible piece of parchment with the title of a book he had never heard of:

"Wandless Magic: Ancestral Tradition of the Forgotten."

"Where did you find this?" he asked, fascinated.

"In a magical library in Soho, on the other side of the city," Stinky replied. "I stole it from a burn bin. They were going to destroy it."

Aurelian held it as if it were gold.

"I want the full book," he said.

"I'll do my best," the elf replied.

Aurelian smiled.

He knew his path wouldn't be easy. That wandless magic, Parseltongue spells, mental runes—everything he was developing—wasn't found in common books.

But he wasn't alone. Not anymore.

He had a legacy. A friend. A purpose.

As he slept, he heard a soft voice. His mother's voice. Singing.

The British magical world still maintained structures similar to the canon: the Ministry of Magic remained the same as in the books, Hogwarts was still the main magical institution, Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade were the most well-known commercial centers.

But a major change compared to the canon was that wizards in this world weren't just more powerful… they were far more numerous than those who had appeared in the books of his past life.

There weren't hundreds of thousands. There were millions.

Small, hidden schools. Underground magical communities. Regional ministries. A hidden network on a global scale.

And not only that—there was a significant difference he had begun to understand: wizards were classified into levels—five, to be exact.

Initiate – the early years of a wizard, when they're just starting to channel their energy.

Conjurer – wizards with conscious control of their magic, capable of performing standard spells.

Invoker – wizards who can use advanced magic, complex enchantments, and magic without constant contact with a wand.

Archmage – a level reserved for the most powerful. Wizards with influence over reality itself, able to alter their surroundings with no visible effort. They are said to live over 200 years.

Sage – almost a legend. Few in history have reached it. They can create new branches of magic, rewrite arcane laws, even touch the very structure of the soul.

In the books, Dumbledore and Voldemort were among the most powerful wizards known. In this universe, Aurelian dared to say they would be classified as Archmages. Some documents hinted that Merlin was a Sage. No one else had achieved that rank in centuries.

He suspected his mother had at least reached the level of Invoker. Maybe more. Otherwise, she couldn't have enchanted the pouch with all its layers of spells.

____________

The orphanage chapel had become more than just a refuge.

Under the dim light of the enchanted candles Stinky brought from the outside world, the place looked less like a ruin and more like a sanctuary. Each night, Aurelian waited for the elf's arrival with a mix of anxiety and intellectual hunger.

"What did you find this time?" he asked one night, his voice full of anticipation.

Stinky pulled a small bundle of crumpled papers from his tunic. Some pages were stained, others incomplete, but Aurelian received them as if they were treasures.

"A fragment of a book on modern magical history… and a report from the Daily Prophet. I took it from a bin at the Ministry," he said with contained pride.

Aurelian began reading immediately. The documents spoke of international surveillance movements, the rise of a magical school in the Himalayas, internal conflicts in South America over the control of an ancient magical ruin… And one sentence made him frown.

"...due to the intervention of the Archmage of Nubia, the conflict was stopped without magical casualties…"

"Another Archmage…?" he whispered.

"Yes, young Aurelian," replied Stinky, lowering his voice with respect. "There are seven alive. It's believed that only seven on the entire planet have reached that level, at least since the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Aurelian turned toward him, eyes sharp as a hawk's.

"Who are they?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

"Albus Dumbledore...in Western Europe. No one doubts his wisdom or his power. Some say he is the closest wizard to the level of Sage in this generation."

"And the others?" I persisted.

Stinky crouched down, as if reciting those names was something solemn.

"One lives in Asia—Maître Ren Yao, an Archmage of balance who masters internal alchemy and spiritual transmutation. He protects a school hidden among the glaciers of Tibet. He rarely leaves his temple."

"Another is in Africa—Archmage Nahla M'Tekai, from Nubia. She controls storms and commands white necromancy. She founded and leads an order dedicated to protecting magical sites from tribal wars and artifact looting."

"In North America, there's Solomon Graye, a thin, blind man—but they say he can read truth in any thought. His mind can see the soul of anyone who looks at him."

"In South America, a man known as Anayan of the Flame, an elemental Archmage who roams the Andes and its volcanoes. He is never seen more than once a decade."

"In Central Europe, there's Marianne Elsenburg, settled in the enchanted ruins of the Holy Roman Empire, now Austria. She specializes in manipulating short-term time and collective memory. Her political influence is silent but immense."

"And the last… is in Russia. Kazimir Volyov. The most feared. A former officer of the old Soviet magical government. A summoner of war spirits. He lives alone, surrounded by dark artifacts."

Aurelian was silent.

Seven Archmages.

And his father… had been one of them.

"That changes everything," he murmured.

"Yes, young sir. This world is vaster than some believe. And more… dangerous."

Days later, while reviewing a text on modern magical history, Aurelian looked up with a furrowed brow. He began to plan something more ambitious. Until that moment, he had depended on what Stinky could steal, rescue, or save from oblivion.

Now he had Galleons. Not many, but enough for what he needed at that moment. Thanks to the bottomless pouch his mother had enchanted, he could withdraw coins only when he truly needed them. Aurelian knew the time had come.

"Stinky, I need you to get me something more specific."

"What does the young master desire?"

"Information on Occlumency and Legilimency. Everything you can find."

The elf blinked.

"That kind of magic? It's uncommon. Restricted. Hard-to-find books… but not impossible."

"Use the money. Buy what you must. Bribe if necessary. I can't allow anyone into my mind without permission."

Stinky lowered his gaze, nodding gravely.

"I've heard things…" he said quietly. "There are wizards who can enter your thoughts while you sleep. Extract memories. Even… plant ideas."

"That won't happen to me," said Aurelian coldly. "I won't let anyone see inside me."

____________

🜁 Magical Expenses – Hidden in his notebook

4 Galleons for an incomplete edition of Fortresses of the Mind, by Brunhild Von Drachenstein.

9 Galleons for a personal diary fragment from a Bulgarian Occlumens, with notes on shared dreams.

12 Galleons for an enchanted mirror to train emotional responses.

Each object, each book, each page was another brick in the construction of his mental fortress.

Aurelian began training more intensely than ever. In addition to his magical channeling practices, meditation, and theoretical development, he now spent hours building inner structures in his mind: he imagined corridors, mental traps, emotional smoke screens. He even wrote false memories, which he recited every night as if they were real.

Aurelian analyzed and categorized mental magic:

Occlumency: mental defense. The ability to close the mind, hide emotions, block magical intrusion. High difficulty. Requires emotional discipline, structured memory, total control of thought flow.

Legilimency: intrusion. Reading memories, emotions. At advanced level: modifying, inserting, erasing. Dangerous. Ethically gray. But useful.

Hypothesis: a trained mind—not only resists but deceives. It can create false memories, mislead the enemy's intentions. Just like a magical illusion… but inside the mind.

Theory No. 101: "If the mind is a castle, each thought must have its tower. Create mental chambers, sealed doors, emotional traps. Train reactions. Rewrite internal order. Expected result: partial block against basic Legilimency."

Theory No. 106: "If the mind is trained like a fortress, it's possible to build layers of mental protection like concentric walls. Goal: block emotional probing and deflect surface thought reading."

At the same time, he continued exhausting his body with magical training each morning.

He woke earlier than anyone, He walked barefoot down to the chapel:

. There, he channeled heat into his palms until his hands trembled.

. Visualized silent spells with his tongue pressed between his teeth.

. Tested new variations of mental runes, inspired by sound patterns in Parseltongue.

. Forced himself to hold magic in his feet until he could maintain levitation for more than three seconds.

. Tried to fuse emotion + pattern + direction, as in his Theory 88, repeating the combination until his fingers went numb.

Theory No. 109: "If emotion is fire and structure is metal, the fusion produces an inner magical forge. By repeating the pattern with intense emotional intention, the soul can be 'marked' with a new ability."

Sometimes he collapsed on the stone floor, gasping, unable to move. But he never stopped smiling.

Knowledge was coming from everywhere.

Sometimes, Stinky brought it wrapped in old rags: broken books, dusty pages torn from hidden libraries or forgotten ministry archives. Other times, they were purchased with Galleons: grimoires bound in enchanted leather, technical manuals on living runes, philosophical treatises on ethical magic, and classified documents that should have been destroyed decades ago.

The chapel's small altar had become an improvised desk. There, Aurelian read, copied, compared, crossed out, then theorized.

Each book was a window.

Each note, a key to breaking limits.

🜁 Recent acquisitions from the so-called "Riddle Archive"

"The Invisible Flow: A Comparative Study of Mental Magic in Eastern Europe" – recovered by Stinky from an abandoned magical school in Romania.

"Treatise on Images of Inner Defense" – bought at a hidden market in Manchester.

"Resonances of the Soul and Their Relation to Mental Structures" – found among the remains of a demolished library in Prague.

"Uncensored History of the Grey Era: Dumbledore and Grindelwald" – acquired for 23 Galleons at a silent auction in Knockturn Alley.

That last one left a deep mark on him.

Stinky delivered it wrapped in a black cloth.

"They were hiding it like poison," he said. "It cost me double. But I think it was worth it."

And it was.

The book wasn't large, but it was dense. Written by a Swiss magical historian, its author had been expelled from the International Confederation of Wizards for revealing politically "sensitive" secrets.

Aurelian devoured every word.

🜁 Excerpt from Chapter VII – The Nurmengard Summit

"Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald were more than enemies. They were mirrors. Two brilliant, idealistic young men, with a power few could comprehend, whose visions of the world diverged at the most dangerous crossroads: the love of freedom."

"After the creation of his fortress in Nurmengard, Grindelwald began a radical movement—not only to elevate wizards above Muggles, but to rewrite the magical structures of the world. His magic was not only powerful—it was innovative. He mastered symbols of ancient power, such as the Deathly Hallows, and possessed forbidden knowledge of lost runes and absorption enchantments."

"Dumbledore, already a recognized Archmage at the time, avoided intervening for years. Not out of cowardice, but because of internal scars. His story with Gellert was personal. They had dreamed together of a magical utopia. They had loved the same power. Perhaps… they had loved each other."

"The duel at Nurmengard lasted three days. It wasn't just a physical battle: it was a war of ideas. They clashed with spells never recorded, transforming the very matter of the castle. The air turned to magma. Time twisted. And when Grindelwald finally fell, it wasn't with hatred—but with sorrow."

"It's said that Dumbledore wept. Not for the victory, but for the broken promise."

Aurelian closed the book with trembling hands. Not from fear. But from inspiration.

"This… this is the level I want to reach," he whispered.

"No… I'm going to surpass it."

Not just learn. Create magic.

Not just defend. Shape the world.

And above all, not repeat their mistakes.

Because now he understood that even an Archmage could be lost—if he didn't master his soul first.